


Known again

by ElnaK



Series: Books of Sacrifices [14]
Category: Frequency (2000), Frequency (TV 2016), High Crimes (2002), Person of Interest (TV), Unknown (2005)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Jean Jacket | Mitch Wozniak is John Reese, John Reese is John Sullivan, Memories, Memory Loss, One actor Several characters, Tom Kubik | Ron Chapman is john Reese, Undercover Missions, naming unnamed characters, remembering lost memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 00:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11196912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElnaK/pseuds/ElnaK
Summary: Mitch Wozniak still has some memories to retrieve, for it all to make sense. Like, why "Mitch Wozniak" doesn't feel really like it's actually his name.(Truth is, he's a CIA agent undercover as a cop undercover as a criminal who used to be a cop and... Well, it's complicated. you can't blame him for being lost after having forgotten everything for a time.)





	Known again

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaand another one! This time, I'm saying that the movie Unknown ( 2006 ) is yet another layer of John Reese's past.  
> I mean, come on, we're talking about a movie in which the main characters all lose their memories for some time, and try to figure out who they were, with plot twists and all that. How could I not add yet another layer ( or two. Or ten ) to the revelations?
> 
> Besides, that allowed me to write several moments of John's past in one OS.

Mitch Wozniak – he wasn't entirely sure yet his name was Mitch Wozniak, but everyone said so, it had to be true – woke up around five in the morning, in a sad, impersonal motel room. The man was almost certain he wouldn't usually mind, but right now, it felt too much like him – impersonal.

The day before, he had been exposed to a chemical product that had temporarily erased his memory, and caused his assignment to go sideways, to say the least. From what he could now remember, he was a narcotics detective who had gone deep undercover for the last months; he had used the assignment to... forget... about his dead daughter? His... wife... had left him, perhaps... He was still a bit fuzzy about the details. Mostly images and scenes of life had come back to him, and he still needed to weave the memories together, to get the situations right.

He tried to focus, at least on what he knew already, to make it make sense.

The story so far was that... His wife had left him when he had made detective, they had shared custody of their daughter, but the child had asthma, and one day she hadn't... Something heavy hit him in the guts, and the man recoiled. It felt like grief, he realized, but it didn't feel much like the kind of grief you'd have when you lost your daughter. More... subdued, perhaps. He could remember the panic, the guilt as Erin had been dying in his arms, as he had given her over to the hospital staff, only to be told they had lost her – it was strong, and crushing. But the lingering feeling behind it all... It didn't feel like he had lost a child.

_Yes it did, but not this time._

Mitch Wozniak winced, and tried to get out of bed. What he needed was a clear mind, was to take a shower, eat something, and go back to sorting through the returning memories.

He had accepted the undercover job because he wanted to get away, not to think about Erin, he remembered – but it sounded to him more like a role he had to recite and play, a story he could feel in his bones, true, but not his story for all of that.

For a moment, he feared that yes, he was Mitch Wozniak, but perhaps Mitch Wozniak had a problem of some kind. Was he insensitive? Had he been trying to figure out how he should feel about his daughter's death, because he didn't actually feel it? Didn't he have emotions? Maybe... Maybe he felt like it was all roleplay, not because it wasn't truly his life, but because he was a sociopath of some kind? Because he had tried very hard to appear normal, making it up as the feelings didn't come, but now that he didn't remember, it didn't make sense? Could he do empathy?

He felt like he could, though.

It just stayed very quiet outwardly.

Mitch Wozniak resumed walking, his eyes on the suitcase in the corner of the motel room. He needed fresh clothes. His clothes were in the suitcase.

The assignment... Infiltrating Burian's operations. Drugs, abductions for ransom, the occasional murder... A bit of everything, frankly. Mitch Wozniak – strangely enough, he couldn't help but to think of himself as the full name, not just the first name – knew one of Burian's guys. They had been childhood friends, but they hadn't seen each other in a long time, hence why the guy had no idea he was a cop. Which was why they had asked him to go undercover...

The man searched for a clean shirt, and denim pants. He was still aching from the fall the day before, and the various other physical shocks he had endured while the five of them, all temporarily amnesic, had tried to figure out who was who and who had abducted who.

Only two of them had made it out, he thought gloomily. Way to start his return to the light...

Especially as the only other survivor was the man whom wife Mitch Wozniak had apparently been fooling around with in secret. His memories seemed to be indicating that the undercover cop had gone bad, and orchestrated the whole abduction. Kill Burian, take the ransom, kill the victims – maybe let the friend live, though, he wasn't a monster – and disappear with the wife, Eliza.

The simple thought was making him sick, now.

How could he have possibly wanted that?

But the other survivor, the husband... William Coles. He had told him, when they were both struggling with their memory, that what mattered, now, was what they did even without the knowledge of the circumstances. That they'd be the people they wanted to become, no matter if they had been the kidnappers or the victims, if only they proved it with their actions.

And ultimately, even if Mitch Wozniak had remembered the real circumstances of the abduction, his plan to get rid of the husband... He had decided to forget it. To give the money back, even when everything was still a mess, and he and the wife could have walked out with the ransom discreetly. Even as she had been looking at him with that hope in her eyes.

He hoped that meant something about him. That he wasn't completely irredeemable.

The man leaned against a wall, his eyes closed, clothes in hand, as the memories he had already gotten back fell right in place. Now all he missed was everything else.

The medic had said he would be back to normal before twenty-four hours, and that a good night of rest would probably speed it up. It had happened about fifteen hours ago...

He still had some memories to gain back, then.

Mitch Wozniak pushed the door to the bathroom open, but...

 

“ _As for you, Rykes, word out there is that we're loaning you to the police for a time. Smile, you're Mitch Wozniak, New Mexico, for the next few months.”_

_He blinked, slowly._

“ _Why?”_

_His former instructor shrugged – curious, sure, but not particularly interested either._

“ _Weirder things have happened in the Agency, you know. For what it's worth, I've been told you've caught the attention of a particuliar division, but its boss is still considering a few things, perhaps taking his time to make sure you're what he wants. Also, they can't seem to decide what official name you'll be taking when your definitive assignment is approved, if you even need one. Something to do with how 'John Rykes' is officially in WITSEC and the marshal in charge is being a tough guy to crack?”_

_John grunted something that might have been an answer, or a rude rebuke, depending on which side of the raimbow you stood under. The other CIA agent wisely decided it mostly meant that whatever secret was in his former student's past, protected by the U.S. Marshals Service, it really wasn't his business._

“ _Anyway... What I mean is, from now on you are a narcotics detective meant to go undercover to get rid of Stefan Burian, a moderately important crime boss in the state of New Mexico. Burian also happens to have information on the location of someone the Agency'd really like to get to. So you'll be working for both the police and us at the same time. Isn't that brilliant?”_

_John snorted quietly, his eyes on the Farm. He didn't think he'd ever see the place again._

“ _Why me?”_

_The instructor wrinkled his nose._

“ _For reasons I'm not privy to, you are apparently just perfect for the role.”_

_It would have made John laught, if he didn't want to keep his past a secret, as much as possible. He had a pretty good idea of why him..._

_He just hoped the number of people who knew it too was tight enough._

 

Mitch Wozniak – or John... But was it even his name? The CIA agent in this memory had said he was – had been? – in WITSEC, so could he really assume that John was truly his first name?

More than that...

If he was this John Rykes... Then who was Erin? Was she really his dead daughter?

...Was she the reason he wasn't a cop anymore? He had distinct memories of being a policeman, of that much he was sure. Him, in a patrol car, when he was younger, sporting the uniform... But that wasn't the only uniform he had worn in his life, was it?

He didn't remember.

John – he'd go with that for now – walked into the bathroom, and looked himself in the mirror. He had fallen asleep fully clothed, and looked even more rumpled than the last time he had woken up that he remembered – meaning, after the gaz that had taken away his memory.

The man started to undress, but stopped as he felt an abrasive pain in his back. Ah. The fall from the window, the day before. Easily five, six meters, and he was alive and in one piece only because he had fallen on something other than the hard floor. He resumed unclothing.

John turned around, and looked at his backside using the mirror. Large bruise on the top, another one down left. Bordering on purple. Just great.

He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, and his eyes locked with the mystery man's.

Who was he, exactly? Mitch Wozniak? John Rykes? Someone else entirely?

Or, perhaps, an addition of them all.

To know that, he needed to figure out who they were first.

 

_Gunfire. Orders screamed, a quick retreat. Soon, another attack to expect. Be ready to bring victory back with you, Boys, even if you have to bring it back using your teeth._

_Another man – army ranger gear – gave him a lopsided grin, without much true humor remaining behind it. Tired._

“ _You hear that, Rykes? You can hear how he's not the one going under the flying bullets just from the way he's encouraging us to become cannon fodder.”_

_He shrugged, not disagreeing, but not really seeing the point of arguing about it either._

_Then again, his fellow soldiers used to say he was disturbingly self-sacrificial, even if he wasn't outright sucidal. Perhaps that was why he didn't see the point..._

 

John shook his head slowly, as if it'd clear his brain – it didn't.

He entered the shower, and started to run the water. It went down his skin, taking away the grime from the day before. The sweat, the dust, the dried blood, too – not that much, but just enough for it to be disgusting.

The water ran down the tube and disappeared into the plumbing, leaving brown-grey streaks in its wake. He'd have to clean the bathtube, once he'd be clean himself.

It was alright. He was used to it.

Of course, he liked it better when he was clean, but years in the army had taught him to deal with filth. The US Army Rangers, of course. The battlefields. But not only that. He had a feeling he had moved through several armed corps. First the infantry, then the rangers...

He closed his eyes, letting the pounding of the cold water against his skin drown any other sound.

1993 to 2005, twelve years. Infantry, rangers, green berets, delta force. But also 1985 to 1988, Marine Corps. Not officially, though; it was a secret. At the time, he hadn't been using his real name either. That's why they didn't know he had been in two very different branches.

Something...

Someone had caused him to leave the marines in a hurry. Wrong medication. El Salvador. Nine dead civilians. Their blood on his hands, and no one to defend him. No one to tell them what had really happened...

John's eyes started open, and he found he was breathing heavily. The water was freezing, and pounding against his bruises painfully. He cut it, and started using soap. To wash out the grime.

To wash out his crimes.

He wasn't sure it could really be done.

 

_The motel room, dark. Late in the night. Him, sitting on the bed, a book in hand, but not really reading. Thinking._

_Thinking about Eliza, and what she had suggested, in between two kisses. That they could get away, far, far away from her husband, and for him, far from his depressing past, if only they had enough money. Enough money. Just like her husband had._

_John couldn't pretend the suggestion hadn't been a hard blow. There was so much he could leave behind, just like that, if he took her proposition... If he came up with a plan, just like he knew would work, because, hell, he was CIA, and he had been a police detective before that. He knew how to fake an accident, or how to plan a crime._

_So much pain, so many regrets, gone with just one abduction and a ransom._

_Except he didn't love Eliza. He liked her enough – that is, until she suggested that, because that suggestion, in his eyes, was a big red warning flag. But he didn't love her. He had gone into this relationship for two reasons: casual benefits, just like her at first, and because she knew a few important people around here. Working himself into Stefan Burian's good graces was one of the ways to get close to the CIA's target, but if he could get confirmation from other sources, it was even better._

_If Eliza had moved onto something more... emotional, it wasn't his case._

_Still, there was something in the idea of suggesting a good plan to Burian that was gnawing at him, and he didn't exactly know what it was for now. Which was the reason he hadn't outright said no._

_His cellphone beeped, and John glanced at the time on his nightstand._

_10:30 already. Kinnear was checking in._

_John picked up._

“ _If it's about my pizza, it's the same as last week: I didn't order anything.”_

_A dry laugh responded on the other end of the phone call._

“Not even with pepperoni, John?”

“ _Depends, would you bring it yourself?”_

“Why, you're missing my award-winning smile?”

_Agent Kinnear had lost two front teeth on a mission in Budapest years ago._

“ _Not particularly. Listen, Kinnear, I need a big case to win over Burian's trust rapidly. If I go on like this, it could take ten more months before he even considers bringing me to one of his meetings with Blas.”_

“And so what? You have a proposition? Because if you can cook up a plan where you don't endanger civilians, can get away with it concerning the police you're supposed to work for, and still commit a crime big enough for Burian to consider you trustworthy, the Agency's all for it.”

_John winced in his phone, and apparently it went through the call, because Kinnear reacted right away._

“You do have a plan, don't you?”

“ _Well... I'm not so sure about the 'no harm comes to civilians' part, you see...?”_

“Say it, and we'll see if we can make it less... dangerous.”

“ _You remember Eliza Coles? Of course you remember Eliza Coles. She suggested that I might, how do I say that? – speed up her husband's demise, so that we get the money and go away in the sunshine, preferably with the money from a millions-worth ransom. And I was thinking, that's exactly the kind of move that might get me in Burian's good graces... A quick, clean abduction, not many civilians involved, and easy money.”_

_There was a time of silence on the other side of the phone call, and John could tell that Kinnear had no issue seeing where was the problem in that plan._

“Except you'd have to follow through with the abduction, which would put the civilians in more-than-harm's way. Unless Burian takes you to see Blas beforehand, having judged you worthy of his trust just because of the idea, in which case you could just off him and deliver his goons to the police before anything go further... Which is kind of unlikely to happen, you'll admit.”

“ _Exactly, and knowing Stefan Burian, the victims wouldn't be freed even if the Coles pay the ransom. I could still say I killed them, and let them get away instead, but it's still very dangerous. William Coles might be killed in the struggle, or even after that...”_

“...Do it. I don't know how you do that, John, but I do know that you can keep the casualties to a minimum. Meaning, Burian and his guys, if need be. We've gotten enough intel thanks to you to limit the area where Blas could be hiding, if you don't manage to keep him alive. We'll have him in less than a month, I can guarantee that, and while it'd be great to get an exact location...”

“ _You can do without. Alright. Well, next week, Kinnear. I've got an abduction to draft.”_

 

He let the water run again, washing away the soap, and yet more filth.

So that was what had happened... It hadn't exactly gone down the way Kinnear and him had hoped it would go. One civilian dead, Richard McCain, and his childhood friend – what was his name again? Anthony, perhaps – dead too. John had hoped he'd manage to at least spare Anthony's life, but...

He frowned, as he walked out of the shower, blindly reaching for a towel.

Anthony should have known his name wasn't Mitch Wozniak, no? If they had known each other since they were kids... Then again, criminals changed names frequently enough. Anthony had probably assumed he had gotten into trouble with someone dangerous back home, in New York, and...

Was New York the city he had grown up in?

John concealed a wince as the towel rubbed badly on his bruises.

 

_The sun, the heat. Mexico. Jessica._

_Laughter._

_Then the Twin Towers falling down on the TV screen, and John remembering – New York. Frank and Raimy were there. He didn't even have a mean to make sure they were alive, short of calling Marshal Patterson._

_Jessica wasn't laughing anymore, and John couldn't help but to think about his family, back home, who might have been caught in the destruction. Frank who, if he wasn't dead or injured, was certainly dealing with the mess; he was a policeman, after all._

_How old was Raimy this year? Thirteen years old._

_John had just quit the army, and now that?_

_He stood up from the bed, grabbed a shirt, and went in search of a phone. He needed to call Patterson, now. He needed to know if what was left of his family..._

_He needed to know if there was anything left of his family, to begin with._

_Then he'd decide if he was going back or if he was staying with Jessica._

_The look she gave him, though, as he left the apartment... John had the feeling she already knew his decision, even if he, himself, didn't know what it would be yet._

 

He had loved her, John remembered. A lot.

Not the only woman, but one of the few. Another one, perhaps, later on. He didn't remember yet.

He dressed himself, dried his hair – he'd have to get it cut soon. He had let it grow longer as he was supposed to infiltrate a group of lowlives, but the lowlives were dead, now, and it didn't look professional. Not that the CIA had a very strict dress code for its agents – too easy to notice – but still. This hair made him look ten years younger, and he didn't want his future partners to start with this impression of him.

Partners?

Ah, right. Kinnear had told him, last week, that his definitive assignment had been decided. SAD-SOG... Funny how a former cop could end up a governmental hitman. He'd meet his handler and his other partner as soon as this would be finished.

John combed the hair as he could, ignoring the bruise on his jaw, where he had taken a bad hit the night before.

A former cop became a CIA spy who plays a narcotics detective...

 

_John was frantic – or as frantic as people like him could get – that night, in the ER. Not many things could faze him, not after all the things he had seen as a cop, as a_ _soldier, but a child in danger..._

_Erin was his partner's daughter. Roger had called him, saying that his ex-wife was supposed to be home with their daughter, but no one was answering the phone, and he couldn't drop the job to go and check on them. So John had gone, and what he had found..._

_Roger's ex had slipped in the kitchen, hit her head, and fallen unconscious. John had verified she was still alive, and called an ambulance, but it wasn't the only problem: Erin's asthma had been triggered into an attack because of the emotional shock, and the girl hadn't been able to indicate him where to find her inhaler, not in the state she was already in._

_John might have considered it too much of a risk to move her mother himself when he had no medical clue of what it might result in, but the hospital was close from the woman's place. After a moment of panick, he had decided to get Erin there himself._

_And there he was, waiting, praying for the girl to live. Roger was on his way to the hospital, and he had been told by a nurse that his partner's former wife wasn't in any danger anymore, but Erin... The Hospital staff had a hard time keeping her alive..._

_He heard it sound and clear when they declared her gone._

_Roger stumbled in the ER forty-seven seconds later, holding tight on the customized lighter his daughter had gotten him around the time John had made detective. The younger man had been at the couple's home when Erin had given it to her father. The girl had even taken the time to show off her gift to John even as she had been calling her father to come and see for himself._

 

John left the bathroom, fresh and clean, but he wasn't feeling any better. These memories... Why did he have these memories? Wasn't there one happy moment worth remembering in his entire life?

He realized he hadn't eaten anything since yesterday morning, so he moved to the kitchen area of the motel, and looked in the cupboards. The only thing he didn't have to cook were cereals.

 

_U.S. Marshal Patterson was staring him down from his desk as if he could sense trouble radiating off him. John might have felt mildly insulted, if he hadn't been about to leave his entire life, his work, his family, his friends behind. Right now, he had other things to think about._

“ _So, John... You realize you won't be able to work in law enforcement anymore, right?”_

_John almost rolled his eyes._

“ _I have some idea of how WITSEC works, yes, thanks. I'll find something, and if I don't... Well. I'm not asking you to give me another life, complete with a wife and three kids. I just want a new, clean identity, that O'Connor won't trace back to me.”_

“ _Unless you make a mistake.”_

“ _I won't.”_

_Patterson didn't look convinced, and John wondered how many times the older man had lost or almost lost a witness because they hadn't been able to keep themselves from contacting their family._

_John wouldn't make that mistake. He'd rather know them away and alive than in danger because of him._

_Who cared if it hurt him, as long as they stayed safe – or, as safe as a cop on the job could be..._

“ _Right. So, just to be clear: a serial killer who happened to also be part of the irish mafia attacked you in your apartment, and you, you... slit his throat?”_

“ _With a kitchen knife.”_

“ _With a kitchen knife. I don't think I've got this kind of case before. Anyway. As a consequence, his uncle, Peter O'Connor, leader of a small family, put a price on your head. Half a million dollars.”_

_John shrugged._

“ _Which is why I'm here.”_

“ _Which is why you're here. Well. Congratulations. You're now John Rykes, bouncer in Seattle. Feel free to search for a better, discreet job. Rykes'll fit you perfectly, he's a stubborn bastard too.”_

 

That had been in 1993, John thought as he slowly swallowed his breakfast, and he was quite certain he hadn't stayed a bouncer long. Something about a fight in a bar? Taken in by the local PD, gotten in front of a judge when they had realized he was in WITSEC, Patterson arriving the next morning, very angry, and John telling him he was going to enlist, because why not?

Yeah... He had been very angry at the time, always trying to pounce on whoever looked at him sideways. Probably because it was the second time already his life was falling into pieces.

Well... John had gotten used to that, eventually.

He closed his eyes for a minute, remembering another woman he had loved, years ago...

Another woman he felt he had lost, too, even if he couldn't remember yet.

 

_Claire and him – don't forget, John, you're Tom Kubik for now – were playing pool in a bar, after his wife had won yet another case. John couldn't tell her who he really was, and he couldn't apologize for having married her without even telling her the truth, not yet, but soon. Only a day left, and he'd..._

_Getting married while undercover. He didn't know what had gotten into him, but that was probably the most foolish thing he had ever done._

_With Claire, everything was so..._

_But John wasn't a fool. Each time he didn't have her right under his eyes, the reality of his situation came back to him. The problem wasn't there. The problem was that, each time he had her under his eyes, he forgot everything that made it a bad idea._

_He loved her so much, he didn't even know what to do with these feelings – it could only end badly, he knew that. It was the exact same thing, with Jessica. He had gotten in over his head, and then, suddenly, a terrible event had reminded him that he wasn't allowed to get nice things._

_It would probably happen again, with Claire._

_John – Tom Kubik – got the ball in the pocket, just as he had said he would, and Claire laughed in disbelief._

“ _That is not fair. You can't use your left hand. You're a mutant.”_

_A smile ghosted over his lips, as he remembered how exactly he had learned to use his left hand just as well as his right hand. Perhaps one day, he'd tell her..._

_But that was a story for another time._

 

John reached for his glass of water with his left hand, without even thinking about it. He stopped his movement for a moment, as he realized what he had just done, and shook his head. He hadn't even noticed, back in the old factory, but there had probably been times he had done just the same thing.

His memory loss hadn't taken away his unconscious habits, coordination and skills.

 

_Anthony was a childhood friend, whom John had met when he still lived in Puyallup, Washington, back when his father was alive. He was reminded of it as he met him again, this time in New Mexico, near Santa Fe. The man Anthony had grown into was a criminal..._

_How did someone you only remembered by the foolish accidents and pranks of youth could become a lowlife? How was this Anthony, when the most vivid memory of him John had, was of the two of them holding for dear life as one of their excursions had turned into a very dangerous trip?_

_They had survived together, and now John was using Anthony to get to a local crime boss, who would then get him to a CIA-wanted hitman._

_It hurt, in a way John hadn't ever known before. And trust him, John knew a lot about hurting._

_Anthony patted him on the back, obviously pleased to see him._

“ _John Sullivan! I hadn't expected to see you ever again, but here we are!!!”_

_John winced at the heads that turned to look at them as they heard Anthony._

“ _Not that loud, Tony...! And call me Mitch Wozniak, now. That's what my fake driving license says.”_

_The other man took a step back, looked him from head to toe. He looked curious, and only barely fazed by the odd request. Of course it wouldn't seem weird to a criminal, of course..._

“ _You're in trouble, Jo... Mitch?”_

_John rolled his eyes, and ordered a beer._

“ _Long story short, I had a little, ah, issue with the irish mob of New York a few years back, and since then, they've put a price on my head. Just enough for it to be dangerous even out of the city. So, you know, I'm being careful, and I'd appreciate if you were too...”_

_Anthony gave him a long, understanding look, and John felt even more like shit for lying. It hadn't happened since quite some time, for him to feel his lies so much... But he had known Anthony when they were both children, and at the time, John hadn't ever felt the need to keep the truth quiet like he did now._

“ _Alright, Mitch... Let's start again, then! I'm Anthony. Pleased to meet you.”_

 

Full, but feeling unsurprisingly empty, John washed his bowl and his glass.

He stared at the recipients as he did so, without really seeing them. There wasn't much to see, anyway – just like him. He was a tool, that got washed of his previous identities, of his lies and deceptions, each time someone needed him for something new.

He was just a tool, clean, but without much interest.

When you looked at him, at first, you couldn't see the remnants from his other lives. He hid them well – better than most.

But they were still there, and he knew it.

During his shower, he had seen the scars. Hidden under his clothes, usually, and not that many, but he knew most of his injuries had healed without leaving a trace. There were more, many more cracks in who he had been, than what was visible on his skin.

Each of his names was a scar, too. Only visible if you knew where to look, but still present in the minds of those he had met, talked to, shared a part of his life with.

Before disappearing.

 

_The accent was terrible, but the meaning was obvious._

_And frankly, John didn't care._

_Hurting him was only making him stubborn, in fact. Electricity hurt, sure._ Passer quelqu'un à la gégène _, they said in French, to speak of that particular form of torture._

 _Well,_ gégène _or not, John had no interest in answering. Besides, he was a stubborn bastard._

“ _Your name.”_

_No answer._

 

Perhaps he simply didn't have a name, at this point.

John went and sat back on the bed. He'd have to get his lighter back – he had kept it for Roger, if the man wanted it back, one day, but Roger hadn't wanted it, and John had kept it. Then he had had to leave, WITSEC and all that, and he had tried to give it back one last time, but Roger had looked him in the eyes, and had said that John deserved the lighter more than him.

John wasn't so sure of that, personally, but he had kept it. Perhaps, one day, he'd see Roger again, and the man would finally accept his daughter's gift back.

That is, if John wasn't killed beforehand.

 

_Kinnear let him finish speed-reading through the file he had given him a few minutes before. John knew he didn't look particularly convinced. He searched his pockets, and found the customized lighter he always carried around._

_He glanced at the senior agent, who was probably wondering if he was planning to burn the file or something. John had to admit, it could look like that... But he wasn't a particularly pyromaniac individual. The lighter was for something else._

“ _A problem, John?”_

_Noncommittal snort, and then an answer._

“ _Mitch Wozniak's backstory... Do you mind if I twist it a bit? I know a good reason why a perfect cop might suddenly want to go on a deep cover assignment, when he was perfectly happy with being a B &E detective.”_

_The flame of the lighter danced quietly... until John stopped it._

_He couldn't believe he was going to use Roger's story to... But yes, he could. His own story wasn't one he wanted to share with the CIA more than necessary, and it wouldn't fit anyway._

“ _Is that really necessary? I mean, you'll spend more time with the criminals, who won't hear a thing about Wozniak's blue past, than with the police department you'll be in contact with...”_

_John shook his head, and pocketed the lighter again._

“ _Oh, believe me, it matters. Narcotics detectives who go deep undercover all have reasons. They want the streets clean for their kids, one of their friends overdosed... or they don't have anything to lose anymore. Mitch Wozniak is divorced because of the job, and his daughter didn't survive her latest asthma attack. He doesn't have anything to lose, except himself, and he's about to try just that. To see how far he can go, before breaking.”_

_Just like John, in a way._

_Kinnear gave him an odd look, but didn't comment._

 

His back – not only his back, but mostly his back – ached. He turned on his stomach, hoping to relieve the pain. It made it a bit better...

But did it really matter?

John was alone, in an impersonal motel room in New Mexico, trying to remember things he didn't have anymore. People he couldn't see, jobs that weren't his, dreams which couldn't be found again.

 

_Frank was standing in the doorframe, looking astounded to see him again – John guessed that was fair. After all, he had left his twin brother behind without a word or a warning more than three years ago, and he hadn't written even once. Frank probably thought he was gone for good. Dead, perhaps._

_Well he wasn't – but he had almost been, more than once, in fact._

“ _Where the hell had you disappeared to, you freaking bastard?!?”_

_John smiled wrily at his brother, eyeing the police uniform and thinking he was never going to tell Frank where he had been, what he had been doing. Let him believe he had walked around the country, perhaps done some petty theft to live, but nothing grave. Let him believe that now, he was home, and he was going to live a full life._

_He had wanted to join the police, years ago, after all. All he had to do was to complete his basic education – easy; John was hardly a fool – and enter the Academy._

_Maybe, that way, he'd get to pay back his debt._

_But he wasn't going to explain that to Frank. So he defused with a grin:_

“ _I'm definitely the big brother.”_

_And indeed, not only was he the first of the twins, but he also had five good centimeters over his brother. Cheers for non-identical twins, please._

 

The memory had him snort, even so many years later, even at something so trivial – Frank had given him a black eye, that day, by the way. John still wasn't sure why, between the joke and his refusal to elaborate on the three years he had spent away. Tough guess, really.

But he wasn't John Sullivan anymore, was he? He was John Rykes. The U.S. Marshals Service said so. He didn't have a brother, he didn't have a niece in New York, and no irish crime boss had put a price on his head.

He was just John Rykes, newly recruited by the CIA, having barely finished his first assignment.

 

“ _Shhh, Rykes... You might be super good with a gun, but I can assure you there's no way in hell you'll get all the targets in time.”_

_The other trainee at the Farm was a young kid, who hadn't been a marine for three years, then a cop for four years, then a soldier for three other years, a ranger for three years again, green beret for two years and delta force for four like John – now that he thought about it, he moved around a lot. Tommy couldn't understand yet._

_Natasha and John shared a look – both former military, they knew better than the kid, and went back to the training exercise._

_They put a hole in each target, without exception, and turned back with arched eyebrows at Tommy._

“ _Well?”_

_He still looked oddly smug, which gave it away. The kid really didn't get it; if you had a trick up your sleeve, you didn't go around telling everyone when it hadn't even happened yet._

_John and Natasha looked back at the exercise – and yes, just as they had thought it had ended, just as they had looked elsewhere, one last target popped up._

_Natasha swore – she had taken her gun in her left hand to rest the right one a bit, and now she couldn't fire in time..._

_John, who had done the same, just rose his left hand, and fired._

_Tommy was wide-eyed._

_Bullseye._

_Natasha laughed, and smacked him in the back._

“ _You ambidextrous bastard! Come on, I'm hungry. And, Tommy? For that, you're paying.”_

 

With the end of their training at the Farm, Tommy had been sent to work on pretty standard missions. The kid had gotten good results, but nothing incredible. John doubted he'd see him again, unless at a desk job, in a few years, not particularly interesting or important.

Tommy, at least, would get to live old, unless some accident happened.

Natasha was somewhere in South Africa right now, living the spy dream – not, but they liked to pretend. No matter what she was really doing, it was certainly more glamourous than his memory loss, if anything.

James Bond was a lie, after all.

John had known for a long time.

 

_He watched as Claire left the small house she had rented for the duration of his trial._

_Tom Kubik wasn't anymore – he had been killed by Ron Chapman. And Ron Chapman wasn't anymore – he had been kiled by a salvadoran rebel. John had made sure of that._

_Claire was free of him, now, no one would go after her because of him ever again, and she wouldn't even grieve him._

_Not with what he had made her believe._

_Just another lie, yet again._

_But this was the last time he made that error, of thinking that perhaps, he could get something good, if he tried hard enough._

_The truth was, John simply had learned not to try anymore, because it never ended well. He had too many secrets, too many demons, too much blood on his hands, to live a life that would hold. All his names, all his identities, his many pasts only had one consequence, nowadays: they destroyed, slowly but surely, any newcomer amongst them, until there wasn't anything left of the name except a shadow._

_It destroyed him a bit more each time – perhaps there was already nothing left to be destroyed. But, more importantly, it destroyed the people he befriended, the people he loved. Each time one of his names was felled, it wounded the ones he cared about too, when they learned that..._

_He wasn't going to try anymore._

 

Someone knocked on the door to the motel room, and John went to open it.

His memories... He was almost there. It was almost done. He was almost himself again.

He still didn't know who he was, though.

 

_A plane. Going back to his unit, in Afghanistan. Where he was supposed to be. Where he should have been to begin with, if he hadn't accepted Commandant Jarosz's task. Where, at least, he wouldn't have fallen in love, only to make her believe afterwards that he was a sociopathic murderer, because that was the only way to protect her._

_Mario Quaggia, in the seat next to his, accompanying him back for whatever reason. The former green beret could as well just feel like it, for all John knew._

“ _You'll get used to it, Rykes.”_

_No need to precise what Quaggia was talking about, of course. They both knew it._

“ _I'd rather not, but I guess it's too late, now...”_

_He already was._

“ _Oh, it is. Guys like you, Rykes... In the end, you always leave the villain.”_

_Because you made them all think you were, because it would be easier for everyone, went unsaid._

 

John opened the door. George Kinnear was on the other side, one eyebrow arched.

“You didn't check in yesterday.”

John blinked.

“It was yesterday?”

The look the senior agent gave him was eloquent enough for no words to be needed. John let the man in, and closed the door. Kinnear went for a chair, John went back to his bed.

He had a rather nasty bruise on his ass, but he wouldn't say that to Kinnear.

“So, what was it about temporary memory loss, five or six cadavers, two of which burned to a crisp? I heard some strange things when I went by your temporary police department this morning.”

“You heard it all, then. No point saying anything else.”

There was a moment of silence, but John wouldn't let more info be probed out of him, not while he was in this state. If Kinnear wanted more details, he'd have to read his report.

John groaned at the very thought. Even as a cop, he had loathed the paperwork...

“What about Blas?”

 

“ _We'll be going to see someone in three days, you and me, Wozniak. Fourteen miles off the old road where we picked up the drugs two weeks ago. Be sure to be free that night.”_

 

John didn't answer right away, trying to remember which shipment of cocaine Burian had been talking about – right. That one. There had been only one viable place to hide around there.

“Got him. Almost. Incomplete location. But the place is closed off, so it shouldn't be too hard to find Blas, as long as someone stays behind to watch the entrance.”

Kinnear sighed, reassured that Stefan Burian had let go of the only secret that interested the CIA before being turned into a human torch – already dead at the time, but still...

“Good. We'll conduct the search tomorrow, with you heading the reconnaisance team. You deserve it. Then, you leave for the airport. Your definitive assignment to SAD-SOG has been approved. You'll meet your new team during your mission. He's an asshole, she's a psycho. You'll like them.”

John didn't deign to answer that. What could he have said, anyway?

“Smile, John. You get to leave the hero, for once.”

Except John Rykes – Mitch Wozniak wasn't a hero. Especially not in this story.

 


End file.
